


La Belle Époque

by AndySkull



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 19:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndySkull/pseuds/AndySkull
Summary: While undercover, Sherlock gets sick and Irene has to take care of him.





	La Belle Époque

Watching cautiously at every corner, Irene waits eagerly on their meeting spot for Sherlock’s arrival. In the dark of night, the seconds turn to minutes and Irene paces restlessly. A shadow approaches, accompanied by a squelching noise the shadow tall and lean. Irene‘s eyes go wide as she recognizes him and the situation that delayed him.

“How was your swim?”

“Cold,” he says, shivering. “They were… at my heels… I jumped into the Seine… lost them… swam to the other shore-”

“I can tell what happened, let’s get you dry clothes,” Irene says with a chuckle, taking him by the arm.

“Feeling better?” Irene asks as he falls into bed next to her, with clean and dry clothes. Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. “You think we are safe?”She asks.

“We are, woman. Those thugs after us were bounty hunters, new to the trade. They’ll give up on us after the… river incident” Irene chuckles at the memory.

“We are low on money. We should… we have to-”

“Hush… We’ll deal with that tomorrow.” He rolls onto his side, his back at her. Irene smiles fondly, caressing his damp curls,. Without another word, she turns off the lamp and surrenders to sleep.

She opens her eyes to cold sunlight filtering through the dingy window, the air brisk their tiny attic flat. Taking a deep breath, her body fills with renewed energy. She smiles as she stretches, rolling to spoon Sherlock. Wrapping her arms around him, she wishes him a good morning. Slow and clumsy, he groans as he rolls to face her. He groans painfully, his face is pale, with dark bags under his eyes and a red nose. Irene curses and jumps from the bed, agile as a gazelle, far away from him.

“I don’t feel good.”

“I can see that… you look… uh, you look like…”

“I feel like death.”

“Well, that’s exactly what you look like,” She says, her mouth setting into a hard line.

“My head is congested and I’ve got the chills,” he says, shivering. “I think I have the flu.”

“Well done, detective. That’s exactly what’s going on. Just… rest, I’ll make some tea, breakfast and… “ Leaving her sentence unfinished, Irene turns towards the kitchen.

The first day Sherlock refuses to eat. He only accepts tea with honey and a splash of milk they have left on the fridge. Spending all day in bed, half awake, half asleep, the night arrives finding him worse than the morning.

“Where are you?” He pleads, but no one answers. “Woman!” He tries again.

“What!?” She shouts from the couch.

“Where are you?”

“On the couch.”

“Why? Come to bed.”

“No thanks. I’ll sleep here. I don’t want to get sick, thank you.”

“I’m scared.”

“Scared?” Irene gets up and walks to the bed, sitting next to him. “What are you scared of?

“That I might die.”

“You are not going to die, Sherlock,” she chuckles, but her voice is tender.

“How do you know?” He says weak, almost fainting.

“Because, dear, you still have to pay for all the bullshit you’ve made me gone through.” A smile appears on her face, from ear to ear and he chuckles.

“That’s a good reason.” Closing his eyes, Sherlock surrenders to tiredness and sleep. Irene kisses his forehead, adjusts the blankets to makes sure he is warm enough and returns to her spot on the couch.

His yellings wake her up, still drowsy, she wobbles up to his side on the bed. Struggling to wake up completely, she tries to focus on him.

“I think… I think I…” He makes a pause to catch his breath and with that action, Irene hears a whistling noise coming from his chest. “I think I swallowed… a whistle.”

“Damm, Sherlock. Are you… uh, having troubles catching your breath?”

“Yes,” his chest whistles as he takes another breath. “It’s hard to breathe.” Irene only nods. She stands, awake and aware now.

“You need to stay hydrated… I’ll make more tea…”

Some hours and two liters of tea later, Sherlock began to cough. Every time he did so, Irene could hear how the mucus detached from his lungs and traveled through his respiratory system.

“Don’t swallow it… just, spit it,” She says handing him an old and empty coffee jar.

“No blood. Congrats! It’s not tuberculosis!”

“Should I be glad?”

“I don’t know… But look at it this way: It could have been so romantic. Both here, winter over Paris, living like miserable rats on this attic with a moody landlady, no antibiotics, no money, you die of tuberculosis… all very appropriate of a novel by Emile Zola. The only missing thing is we should be married, with…let’s say three kids and a baby on its way, you about to make a widow of me. Thank God is not La belle époque.”

“That sounds nice.” He says absently.

“What sounds nice? That we are living like it was 1899 but is actually the twenty-first century?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Rest now,” she says standing up, but Sherlock catches her hand.

“Don’t leave. Stay, please.”

She sits back on the bed and Sherlock crawls to rest his head on her lap, panting heavily. She can hear how his lungs whistle as he breathes. Irene caresses his hair until he falls asleep.

“We should do this more often, I mean, I like this…”

“What do you like?”

“All of this.”

“Living in an attic in Paris? Being chased by a terrorist? The flu?”

“No…. no. This, you and me, living together. Is nice, I like it. I could do it forever.”

Irene frowns and walks at Sherlock, who has been in been for the past two days.

Sitting next to him, she places her hand on his forehead. She stands immediately and hustles around the place, opening every drawer, furniture, and bag.

“What are you doing? I just said something nice and romantic… say something back! …please?”

“I was looking for this,” returning at his side, Irene puts a pill on his hand and offers a glass of water. “Take it. It will help with the fever,” obediently, Sherlock does. “Now, I’ll go to-”

“No, don’t go. Stay!”

“I’ll be right back, really. Rest now, It’ll only take me a few minutes.” She kisses him on the forehead and leaves the glass of water on the night table. She picks up a few things from around the place, searches in her pockets and stands in front of the door, with her back at him. “I’ll go to get some medicine,” she informs while she, hiding it from him, searches his wallet. “Don’t know which with money…” she whispers.

“Mmhm? What was that?”

“I’ll be right back. Stay hydrated!” She smiles fondly at him and leaves.

When he wakes up his mouth is dry, the sheets damp and the attic is dead silent. Half asleep, he reaches for the glass on the night table but it’s empty. As his eyes recognize his surrounding, he realizes that night has fallen and he is alone. Sherlock stands slowly and walks with the same pace at the kitchen, filling the glass with water, drinking it right away. Exhausted, he drops on the couch falling asleep again.

He is awakened by Irene’s voice, but everything around him is a confusing haze.

“What are you doing here? You should be in bed.”

“I was thirsty.” Suddenly, Irene is handing him a glass of water and more pills.

“I got you medicine, you’ll feel better. Take it.”

Irene retrieves the empty glass from his hands, comes and go along the attic. She covers him with a blanket, smiles softly and relieve at him, but keeps on her tasks around the place.

“Your dress… That dress…” He points out after a long time observing. “You were not using it when you left early.”

“No, it’s new. You like it?” Sherlock nods, still confused.

“How did you get it? And the meds?”

“The dress, at a shop. The meds, at a pharmacy.”

“No, but-” Sherlock struggles to speak his mind. “Not where, but how… you said yesterday that we had no money… something like dying of tuberculosis and… a sad french novel.” Irene laughs at his words and Sherlock smiles broadly at the sound.

“It took me a while actually. I got it all around Montmartre. So, Sorry for keep you waiting, but now we have enough money for the rest of the month.”

“How did you get money?”

“Uh… A girl has its ways…” She winks at him mischievously, but Sherlock is not having any of that.

“No, wait! You were in… Montmartre,” he tries to stand defiant, instead, he stumbles so Irene rush to aid him. “That’s a.. That’s a red-light district. What- what exactly were you doing there?”

“I needed to get some money,” she hesitates a bit, while Sherlock stares, deep concern. “I did what I needed to do.”

“No!… No, you don’t have to do that. I… uh… we’ll manage, we’ll find another way to get money.”

“It’s fine. I really don’t mind.”

“But I care!” He claims upset. He pants for the effort. Stepping away from her embrace, Sherlock catches he face into his hands. “You don’t have to do that. Promise me, you won’t ever do it again… promise me.” The last part of his sentence is soft and tender, almost sounds like a plea. Irene looks at him intently in the eyes, her expression serious, focus. A few seconds pass, both in silence locking their gaze. When suddenly, Irene’s facade breaks and she burst into laughter.

“I am sorry!” She manages to say between her laughs. “You should have look at your face. All upset!” Sherlock is startled, confuse. Irene takes advantage of his state, catching his face on her hands this time, and kisses him, deep and loving.

“I went between pub and pub in Montmartre. Stealing wallets and credit cards. That’s how I got the money… and the dress.” Irene smiles innocently at him, in response, Sherlock sights heavily and goes to bed. He lies down, closes his eyes to sleep but Irene crawls on the bed and spoons Sherlock.

“Don’t get mad at me, it was a joke.”

“I’m not mad, just tired. And relieve.”

“Why do you care so much, anyway?”

“Because I love you.” Irene does not answer. “If I survive this… this sickness…”

“Yes…?”

“We should get married.”

“Dear… That’s the fever talking.”

“No, no, It’s me talking.”

“All right darling. Have some sleep now.” Irene sits and carefully leans to whisper on Sherlock’s ear. “I think I love you too.”


End file.
